Only Skin Deep
by Lavinia Lavender
Summary: Sam started a new life in Stanford, but the past isn't as cleanly cut away as he would like to think. Sam/Jess, but warning for intense flashbacks of Wincest.


Hey guys. Guess what my new favorite thing is. Yep - Supernatural. Expect a _lot _coming up. Though I hope to balance it out with Hellsing stuff soon enough.

Thanks so much to dime_for_12 on LJ for the beta work!

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**Only Skin Deep**

The first genuinely warm day of spring, Sam and Jessica sprawl out on the lawn with a bunch of friends. They bring their books, and some of them are even open, but no one's reading or taking notes. Dave has his guitar, though Ashley seizes it after he protests he doesn't know that song one too many times. The girls are singing along with whatever Beatles song she's picking out the chords for, and with Sam's head in Jessica's lap, he can feel the vibrations of her voice through her diaphragm and his skull. It's a beautiful day where he's so fucking happy to be alive and _here_ and not worried about anything more than finishing that history paper by the end of the weekend.

Jess's moving her fingers lightly over his scalp, little circles and soothing lines, tugging gently on his hair, and he squints his eyes open to see her. The sun's just behind her head, illuminating her hair like an honest-to-God halo. He can see how bright her eyes are, and her teeth as she smiles back down at him, and for the millionth time he wonders at his luck.

Out in the street, an old engine cuts and roars, and Sam's spine jolts from his shoulders to his tailbone like someone tazed him. He pushes himself up onto his elbows because he knows it can't be, but he has to see it for himself anyway. And it's just some old bright orange Mustang, a couple kids leaning against it to talk to the driver. Sam drops back into Jessica's lap, and she places her soft slender hands against his face.

"You okay, Sam?"

"Yeah," he said, reaching up for her face in turn, to tangle in the blonde tresses he loves so much. "Yeah, I'm fine, sorry."

There's still a hint of worry in her eye, but she closes her lips. By now, she's used to his array of triggers inducing odd behavior, and car engines are the least worrying, really.

"Hey!" Nick waves at someone in the dorm behind them. "Turn that shit up!"

They must have a stereo planted by the window, because what has been an indistinct beat grows louder, sharper, until the music and lyrics are recognizable, and Sam's breath catches in his throat.

"Push It" by Garbage. Lebanon, Pennsylvania. Another three-room, run-down apartment to make the best of for a few weeks, the less time the better. Dad tracking omens over surrounding counties, leaving Dean to pick up work at the local garage and grocery store to keep the heat running, but he and Sam tangle together at night like they need it anyway. The walls are no better than cardboard for sound, and while they try to keep it down, others aren't so considerate. Garbage's bass pounds through from next door as Dean's pressing Sam into the bed, both his wrists in Dean's slippery grip as he's pushing his finger inside Sam for the first time, the first fucking time, and Sam thinks he's going to shake apart, but Dean whispers, "I got you - I got you, Sammy," and it feels strange and wonderful and like he can't ever get enough, not enough of Dean's hands or voice or skin. Sam can't stop making all these keening noises, half into the pillow and sheets, thrusting his hips as much as he can to feel more, and Dean never stops murmuring except to lick the sweat from his neck.

"Sam? Sam, baby, talk to me."

He sits up so fast he almost knocks her in the mouth with his head, but right now, he can't have her touching him. His chest's pounding too hard for him to speak, and a cold sweat has broken out over his forehead and back. The air doesn't feel nearly as warm. Sam takes a few deep breaths, trying his hardest to _get his shit together_ because he knows he's freaking out the girl he loves, and he isn't going to have a good cover for this.

Finally he gasps, "Sorry - think I might be sick -" and scrambles to his feet, setting off at a jog for the nearest building.

Inside the men's bathroom, he wipes a damp towel over his face and neck, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. It has been a long time since he's thought of any of that; he thought he had it all wrapped up in a box, pushed far back into the recesses of his mind.

Remembering is fatal. It reminds him why he did not date anyone his first year at Stanford, despite plenty of opportunity, and what it took to let himself be with Jess, especially as he learned how whole and real she is. It reminds him, too, of what he left behind, what he gave up he once thought he couldn't live without. And remembering, he still thinks he can't, wonders how he's lasted this long and what he's doing here, and the fact that he doesn't know where Dean is in the country right now is so painful it's all he can do not to lean against the sink and sob.

He knows Jess is waiting for him outside, and shortly he'll go out there, smile and wrap his arm around her, tell her maybe it's something he ate, lying as usual but as little as he can. Because this is the life he's chosen, this is the life he has, and part of that is shielding her from the world of monsters and the dark twisted things it breeds.


End file.
